


Consequences

by EbonyKnight



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, John Is Not Nice, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Sherlock Series 4 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 13:01:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9658472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EbonyKnight/pseuds/EbonyKnight
Summary: Saturday morning in bed with Sherlock is ruined by the arrival of an angry John Watson. Contains spoilers for season four generally and The Lying Detective and The Final Problem specifically.Please note that there is some very mild sexual/intimate content. I've rated it as 'Teen' because I'm not sure it justifies 'Mature', but if you disagree please let me know.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CindyLouWho](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CindyLouWho/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. 
> 
> This has been buzzing around my head since mid-January but was poked into life by CindyLouWho, and, as such, is dedicated to her. She leaves such encouraging comments and I very much enjoy discussing all things Sherstrade with her!
> 
> In my professional capacity I am familiar with the UK's safeguarding legislation. If I stumbled across a situation where someone with responsibility for a child or vulnerable adult admitted to abusing a vulnerable adult, in any way, I would be duty-bound to report it to social services, whether the victim pressed charges or not. I doubt a safeguarding investigation would stick, because there is no evidence that he's a risk to Rosie, but the advice would still be to report it, because there are early intervention teams who could go in and provide support to make sure it doesn't deteriorate, whether that be anger management services or the like. Greg, in his professional role, would not have been able to hear and see evidence of John's brutality and not take steps to safeguard Rosie. Simple. Sherlock would not be classified as a vulnerable adult most of the time, but when he is in a cycle of addiction and his mental capacity is in doubt, he very much falls into that category. Certainly in this country, but I don't know where the thresholds are elsewhere. 
> 
> I've tried to like John, I really have, but the best I've ever managed is neutrality, and this, I believe, falls well into the category of 'John bashing'. 
> 
> Not beta'd and I claim all errors for my very own. 
> 
> Feedback is loved. It's great to hear/read what people think, and it helps me to develop ideas and plots :)

The tapping coming from Sherlock’s side of the bed eventually became too much for Greg to slumber through, and he reluctantly roused himself. He lifted his head from the pillow, looking blearily at the younger man; he was sitting up in bed, legs crossed, staring at his laptop, and wearing an adorably confused expression. This version of Sherlock, half dressed with rumpled hair and obvious stubble, was Greg’s favourite; it demonstrated how comfortable the younger man was with him, that he trusted Greg to see him without his armour, and Greg’s heart swelled every time he woke up to it.

“What’re on earth are you working on at this time on a Saturday morning?” he asked, voice rough with sleep. 

“Analysis of the results from my latest experiment,” Sherlock replied distractedly, attention fixed on the screen.

“Anything interesting?”

Sherlock glanced at Greg, a cheeky smirk dancing about his lips. “Data on your pattern of snoring.”

“Oi, I don’t snore!” Greg exclaimed, swatting Sherlock’s duvet-covered thigh. 

“I beg to differ.” The younger man turned his laptop so Greg had a clear view of the screen. “Here, and here,” he said, pointing at two red coloured columns, “are when it peaks. Between and two and four in the morning is when you are most active. The evidence is irrefutable.” 

“I don’t snore!” Greg protested again, staring disbelievingly at the screen. The spreadsheet was populated with numbers and percentages, the cells colour-coded in a way that presumably made sense to Sherlock but meant nothing to Greg. “I think I’d have noticed by now, don’t you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Greg; you’re hardly likely to notice snoring when you’re asleep. It isn't usually loud, really more of a snuffling grunt, honestly, but it was particularly noticeable when you had that cold last week.”

Greg stared at Sherlock’s spreadsheet for a long moment, studying the key and accompanying statistical analysis. “You’re mad. You know that, right?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but his smile was warm. “Obviously. Now that you’re awake,” he said leadingly, closing his laptop with a snap. “Snoring isn't the only thing that a bed is good for.”

Greg snorted, reaching up to card his fingers through Sherlock’s messy curls. “That might be the cheesiest line you’ve used yet.”

“Hmm,” was Sherlock’s intelligent reply as he shuffled down in the bed until he was plastered against Greg’s side. 

For all that Sherlock had been lacking in actual relationship experience when they had finally got together, the two of them had a long, chequered history of falling into bed together; when Sherlock needed a distraction; when Greg’s ex-wife left him, again; when Sherlock needed comfort; when Greg had been dealing with a particularly trying case and needed warmth and comfort. Their times together over the years had given them intimate knowledge of each other’s bodies, what made the other tick, where, exactly, to stroke and caress and suck to get the best response, and Sherlock used everything he'd learnt over the years to make Greg gasp.

“Christ,” the older man panted as Sherlock worked methodically down his torso, lips and tongue in perfect sync. 

“Sherlock's fine,” came the murmured reply, breathed hotly against Greg’s skin. 

“I should check on Jacob before we—”

“—He was sound asleep not more than twenty minutes ago, and after yesterday I wouldn't be surprised if he stayed that way until noon.” Sherlock brought his hands into play, driving Greg to distraction. “The monitor is on, so we’ll hear if he gets up.”

Greg grunted his agreement, trailing a hand down Sherlock’s back and under the duvet until he reached the swell of his arse. The younger man had never been particularly fussed about penetrative sex - in either role - but he did enjoy Greg’s fingers, something the older man exploited ruthlessly at every given opportunity. “You like that?” he asked teasingly.

“Hmm, you know I do.” Sherlock’s lips brushed Greg’s neck as he spoke, causing a crop of goosebumps to break out in their wake. 

Long minutes passed, filled with caresses, intimate touches, and deep, hot kisses, until a sudden, furious, pounding on the front door startled them apart. 

“What the hell?” Greg asked, pulling away from Sherlock’s kiss-swollen lips. He moved quickly, swinging his legs out of bed, and bent down to pick up the previous day’s boxer shorts. 

The baby monitor crackled to life and Greg cursed under his breath. “Daddy?” came Jacob’s voice, sleep thick and scared.

Sherlock got to the monitor before Greg and pushed the button to activate the microphone. “He's going to get the door, Jacob, but can I come in?”

“’spose so,” came the reply, audibly cranky. 

“Thanks,” Greg whispered just as the pounding on the door started anew. He took his dressing gown off the hook on the door and shrugged it on, belting it tightly as he headed down the stairs. 

Through the glass door panel he could see that whoever was abusing his front door was male, but finding John Watson on the other side of it was a surprise. “John, what—”

“—Who the _hell_ do you think you are?” the doctor demanded, face contorted in anger, forcing his way through the door. 

“What—”

“Don’t play dumb! Do you have any idea how much trouble you’ve caused? Social workers sticking their noses in for weeks, sniffing around and invading my life; I thought it was because of my history of PTSD, that they were checking that I was coping alone with Rosie, but then she left her paperwork on the table and I saw that it was because of _you_!” John thundered.

Things quickly fell into place and Greg clearly remembered calling the social services office that covered John’s area to report a child safeguarding concern the day it had all gone to hell with Culverton Smith. Despite years of police work, adrenaline kicked in at such direct, personal conflict, and Greg’s blood positively buzzed with it. “Of course I rang them: I’m a copper. What did you think I was going to do when a parent admitted to viciously assaulting a vulnerable adult?”

John’s fists balled and he stepped forward, invading Greg’s personal space. “He’s no vulnerable adult: he’s a faker and a liar! He went for Smith and I stopped him, and you had _no_ business phoning social services. I’m a doctor! Do you have any idea what this looks like?”

Greg held his ground, bitter experience of dealing with bullies automatically kicking in. “Wrong: that is _exactly_ my business. It might all be a lark to you, but my job is protecting the public, and safeguarding's part of that; I had a legitimate concern about Rosie’s welfare and I acted on it. Didn’t they cover that during your medical training?” Greg asked bluntly, anger surging at the thought of Sherlock, ill and vulnerable, being attacked by his best friend. “He was ill and high, and you beat him; you’re bloody lucky I didn’t arrest you for it on the spot.”

John snorted and stepped back, a pitying expression crossing his face. “You really can’t see it with him, can you? He’s got you wrapped around his little finger, and you’re completely blind to it. Do you know about the personality disorder? He's not exaggerating when he says he's a high functioning sociopath. That’s the sort of thing a normal person would tell a friend, but I had to find out from his medical notes. What about the mad sister locked up on an island? Did you know about that? I didn’t have a clue because Sherlock Holmes is a pathological liar, and never tells people about the danger that comes with knowing him until it’s nearly killing them,” John ranted, face turning an ugly shade of puce. 

Greg _did_ know about Sherlock’s personality disorder, largely because Mycroft had been away on business and _he_ had'd the one to pull Sherlock out of a drug den two days after he received the diagnosis. Sherlock had given him both barrels about the psychiatrist’s incompetence, obvious erectile dysfunction, and why the man was wrong, but that was none of John’s business. The sister had been a surprise, granted, but it certainly made sense in light of Mycroft’s obsessive protectiveness and stalking of the people he cared about.

Before he could answer, a door closed upstairs and Greg turned to look up to the first floor. Sherlock was standing at the top of the stairs, barefoot and wearing just his boxers and one of Greg’s old t-shirts. “John,” the younger man greeted warily, quickly descending the stairs. “This shouting is upsetting Jacob.”

Had the situation not been so serious the look on John’s face when Sherlock appeared would have been hilarious. “You have got to be joking! How long has this been going on for?” he demanded, eyes flitting between Greg and Sherlock. 

“Not long,” Greg replied just as Sherlock said, “Seven weeks and three days, but we had had lots of sex prior to initiating a romantic relationship.”

“My wife lost her life saving yours, and you’re off playing house with this bastard?” John’s fists were clenching rhythmically and he took a step forward, but Greg blocked him bodily. 

“Sherlock's got nothing to do with this, and what and when we tell people about our relationship is between us. I won’t have you upsetting my son. Leave my house, now.”

“Are you going to let him talk to me like that?” John asked Sherlock, and Greg fumed: John calling Sherlock manipulative was the clearest case of the kettle calling the pot black that Greg had encountered in years. 

“Your problem's with me, not Sherlock, and I’ve just asked you to leave my property,” Greg replied before Sherlock could be forced to take sides.

John glared at Greg for a long, tense moment but Greg held his ground and eventually John backed away. “I’ll be in touch with you later,” the doctor said to Sherlock and turned, marching down the short path and out onto the street. 

Greg closed the door and it was only then that he realised that his hand was trembling. Copper with twenty years’ experience he might be, but his dislike of conflict in his personal life was one of the reasons his ex-wife had walked all over him, repeatedly. “I’m sorry,” he said, turning to look at Sherlock. “I—”

“—Did the right thing,” Sherlock interrupted, taking hold of Greg’s hand. “The Metropolitan Police’s policy on safeguarding of children and vulnerable adults is very clear. You need to make a complaint about the social worker leaving confidential information in the open, however.”

“I know. I’m sorry if this makes things difficult for you,” Greg replied, stroking Sherlock’s hand with his thumb. 

Sherlock stared their joined hands. “He has barely been in touch since the events at Sherrinford and hasn't allowed me to see Rosie. I doubt this will make things any worse than they already are.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s hardly your fault,” Sherlock replied, tugging on Greg’s arm. Greg allowed himself to be pulled until his chest was flush against the other man’s. 

The kiss they shared was warm and comforting, but the surge of adrenaline had left Greg feeling jittery, and, despite knowing that reporting John had been the right thing to do, he felt guilty.

With an exasperated sigh Sherlock pulled away. “Guilt is a useless emotion.”

The sound of a door opening upstairs distracted Greg and he looked up to the first floor to find Jacob, dressed in his best jeans and jumper, gazing down at them. “When are we going?”

“Going where?” Greg asked, wracking his brain but not remembering arranging an outing. 

“To see the dinosaurs, silly!” Jacob replied excitedly.

Greg looked at Sherlock, eyebrow raised. “Dinosaurs?”

“Ah, well, I promised Jacob that we would go to the Natural History Museum to look at the dinosaurs, in exchange for him playing in his room when John was here,” Sherlock said, and Greg could hear the hesitance in his voice.

A smile split Greg’s face and he leant in for a brief, chaste kiss. “I like dinosaurs.” 

He stepped away from Sherlock and took the stairs two at a time. Upon reaching the top scooped his son up, Jacob’s bright, delighted laughter soothing his frazzled nerves. “Now, what do you remember about the Triceratops?”


End file.
